


How to Mourn the Man You Love

by blackcoffeeandteardrops



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffeeandteardrops/pseuds/blackcoffeeandteardrops
Summary: "After the funeral, everyone tells you to take care of yourself."// Scully goes to the one place that can give her solace after Mulder's funeral. A little bit of angst ensues.





	How to Mourn the Man You Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a departure of sorts for me in a few ways. For one, I very rarely write in second person. I wanted to play around with format a bit, but this is what happened instead. Second, I don't know if I've ever written anything set during the actual original series. I've written on the run fic and revival stories for the vast majority of the time I've written for XF, so it was a way to challenge myself. As a general rule, I stay away from character death. Except, it would appear, sometimes I do not. Thanks for reading!

After the funeral, everyone tells you to take care of yourself. Someone--you’re not sure who, because honestly that and the days leading up to it feel like a blur--reminds you that you need to stay healthy for two people now. And so you decide to do just that.

Entering his apartment for the first time since watching his casket being lowered into the ground will be hard, and you will hesitate in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. This is okay. You’ll take a deep breath, remembering the happy times you had in this place, and so you’ll enter and lock the door behind you.

The desire to move, to clean every little hint of clutter, might overwhelm you at first. You’ll start in the kitchen, putting away dishes that had been sitting in the rack (some of which you left there the last time), and you’ll move on to the living room and straighten the blanket on the back of the couch. You’ll enter the bedroom and pointedly avoid looking at the bed, because the last time the two of you shared that space is so achingly familiar and it hurts, so instead you’ll make a beeline for the bathroom.

The woman in the mirror may not look recognizable to you. Sure, the hair will be red and her eyes will be blue, but the months of wondering where he’s been coupled with cradling a life inside of you have worn you thin. There might even be circles under your eyes, but don’t let that alarm you. The shower may also prove difficult, and you’ll recall a conversation you had with him there where you insisted that shower sex just wasn’t practical, and you’ll remember how good you felt when he proved you wrong. For a second you’ll be happy, but then the truth will hit you, and so to keep your mind busy, you’ll set about cleaning the sink.

Of all things, it will be the toothpaste flecks and water spots on the bathroom mirror that will be your undoing. You’ll have the washcloth raised, moistened and ready to leave the mirror spotless, but then you’ll think of the man who put them there in the first place. You’ll have one hand resting on the swelling belly that currently houses your child, and you’ll reach out with the other, gingerly pressing your fingertips to the glass. How many times had you stood behind him as he was at this mirror, shaving or brushing his teeth or simply getting ready for the day? You’ll close your eyes, recalling the way he’d be mid sentence when he’d bow his head, spitting toothpaste into the sink before carrying on with whatever conversation that was surely important at the time.

The memories may be too much, so you’ll wander out to the living room. The video tapes get straightened, and for a second you consider taking one out to watch, but the thought of sitting on the couch you and him spent countless hours on, watching a movie that the two of you once watched together, makes you sick to your stomach.

You’ll feed his fish. You’ll count them, one by one, and try remembering the names he gave you once, and you’ll wonder if they notice their owner is gone. A fish has a short memory, you read once, and for a split second you’ll find yourself wishing you had the same. Don’t let the guilt of that thought overtake you, however. It’s perfectly normal.

The silence of the room will be broken by the shrill ringing of the phone, and you’ll stare at it, your hand placed protectively over the child resting inside of you, as if the intrusion of a phone that shouldn’t be ringing could possibly harm him. Your breath will hitch in your chest when the voicemail kicks in and your hear the voice you’ve longed to hear for months telling whoever is calling to leave their information for him. Whoever it is, you know they won’t be getting a return call, and when you hear a sales rep talking about the latest cable television technology, you really won’t care. The sound of his voice will rattle you, and you’ll feel a little light headed. Sitting on the sofa and draping the blanket across you in this instance will be appropriate.

You’ll call his number a few times, listening to his voicemail message over and over until you’ve memorized his words. The thought might occur as to why you didn’t do this any sooner, but don’t feel guilty about it. The baby will start to move, kicking around, and you’ll laugh. A moment of joy amidst all the pain. “Your father would have loved you,” you’ll say, affectionately rubbing your abdomen. That might even earn you a nudge, and you’ll marvel for a moment at the miracle of human life. You’re a doctor, but this is an experience that for so long had been taken from you. It was something you no longer thought was possible, so please know it’s okay if it’s something you still struggle with.

You’ll nearly fall asleep against the couch cushions when the sound of the phone ringing again will wake you. It’s not you calling, and anyone important was either at the funeral or had been informed, so you’ll feel angry at whoever is intruding in such a way. The surprise at realizing that not only is it your mother calling, but that she’s calling for you, is enough to bring you to your feet.

“Dana, honey, it’s mom,” Maggie’s voice will sound just as sweet and reassuring as ever. Where others might lace their voices with pity, your mother has never been that way. “I tried your home, and your cell, so this was the only other number I could think of. I know you’re not home, and I know you said you needed space. But please know I’m here if you need me,” she’ll say, and you’ll know she’ll mean every word. “If you’re listening to this and don’t feel like talking, I understand. But I’d like to take you to lunch tomorrow. It’ll be good for you to get out a bit for some air.”

You’ll run to the desk, pushing aside old bills and magazines in search of a pen and paper to write the address of the restaurant she expects to see you at. You’ll open the drawer in search of said pen, delving through stacks of index cards and newspaper clippings, trying hard to not think of the man who put them there. You’ll find the pen, but the box sitting next to it will stop you in your tracks.

You’d been seeing each other for a few months before his disappearance, but in actuality it felt like much longer than that. Still, the subject of marriage was something that had never come up as something that either of you had wanted. The sight of the ring--the word alone causes your head to spin--will cause a bit of a shock,

The fact he had a ring and the fact you have a baby, and the fact neither of you told each other about either of those things will make you sad. The room might even seem to shrink, and suddenly as much as you love her, your mother’s message isn’t as important.

The desire to leave may be tempting, but consider your emotional state. Consider the way tears might cloud your eyes and the way your breath will become rapid, and instead choose to slowly close the ring box and put it away.

If anger is what you feel when this happens, know that’s okay, but so is the sadness that’s sat like a rock in your throat from the moment he went missing and you tried pretending everything would end well, but deep down inside you knew that this time was different.

If you don’t feel up to driving, go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water from the faucet. Drink it, taking deep breaths between each sip. Try to gain composure, because losing it will be the last thing you need.

His absence will feel overwhelming. Between the events of the day, hearing the voicemail, and seeing the ring, exhaustion will overtake you. Suddenly, all the strength you have will be needed just to stand.

You’ll realize when you enter his room again and finally risk a glance at the bed why you chose to come here. In a lot of ways, his apartment always felt more comfortable than your own. His apartment has always felt like home, a sanctuary amidst whatever chaos had upended both of your lives, so don’t be surprised when this is no different.

You’ll feel cold and hot at the same time, and you’ll miss the man who could somehow make both of those things better. He was always so careful with you, so protective, and you know the baby would have made his protective side even stronger. You’ll sit on the foot of the bed to slip off your shoes and wonder, not for the first time, what would have happened had he stayed. What would have happened if he wouldn’t have taken off again and insisted on leaving you behind, insisted on keeping you safe, because wasn’t that what he always did? He was always putting himself in danger, to protect you or to protect someone else, and not caring what anyone else thought. Remind yourself of the ring that you found and remember it’s proof: he always meant to come back.

A stack of his clothes has sat relatively untouched since he disappeared. You rifled through it to find an old shirt you always loved wearing to bed once, but the smell of him had worn off, and suddenly you’ll realize you’re desperate for something more. Something tangible, a reminder that he was here. You bought him his favorite cologne, and in a moment of desperation had sprayed it just to smell him, but this time will be different. This time, it won’t be enough. There will be something different about a shirt he’d worn, had lived in, if only for a time.

You’ll find a button up, and you’ll hold it to your nose, breathing in deep before sighing in relief. It’s faint, but you’ll take it. You’ll cradle it to your chest like you soon will with the child growing inside of you, and you’ll crawl into his bed. The indent still left in his pillow will be enough to make you choke back a sob, but remember this is your sanctuary. You can cry and you can yell, and you can do whatever it is you want. Except, you’ll remember, a neighbor complained once when the two of you were a little too loud. It was a good day, a happy day, when the only times either of you had gotten out of this bed were to grab food from the kitchen and use the bathroom.

Should you find yourself crying at this memory too, try remembering some of those are happy tears. You’ll use the shirt to dry them away before again pulling it close. The baby will start moving again, twisting around inside of you, and you’ll let yourself imagine what it might look like with the three of you, snuggled up safe and sound in this bed. It’s a nice thought, even if now it’ll never happen. You’ll vow to him, though he’ll never hear it, that his child will grow up to know him.

“Oh, Mulder,” you’ll say, one hand clutching his shirt to you while the other caresses the growing swell of your stomach. It might be the first time in days you’ve been able to say his name without feeling like you’ll fall to pieces. In reality, there are too many things to say to the man you’ll never get to speak to again, you may not be sure if it’s worth saying them out loud. But your mother was saying something the other day about how talking to your child can help stimulate their growth, how it can help increase the bond you share, and there were studies you read in college that echoed similar details, so you talk to the baby instead.

“Your father was a great man. I loved him. I love him,” you’ll correct yourself, because whether or not you’ll see his face again, that’s one thing that will never change. “There’s so many things you need to know, baby. So many…” You’ll let yourself get lost in the stories, feeling as if they’re a balm to your deeply wounded heart, and you’ll fall asleep this way, curled on your side in the middle of the bed. The aching in your chest for the man that should be here will still be present, but it’s a duller pain now, something that may not fully go away. As you drift off, remembering the fact there is another heart beating so close to your own, thanks in part to him, you’ll find you’re okay with that.


End file.
